Chapter 14
Cassie
When I invented my story of the tryst in the snooty rich person’s spa, I spared no detail for my sisters.
I described the feel of the luxurious Turkish towel against the back of my thighs, the scent of the juniper shampoo I’d used in my hair, the coolness of the marble against my palms as I gripped the edge of the counter while a hot, nameless guy stood between my bare thighs.
And while some of the details are different—the counter is granite and the guy definitely has a name—I never imagined it would feel this good.
“That’s nice,” I murmur as Simon kisses his way down the center of my body.
We’re locked in the largest dressing room of the Ladies’ Relaxation Suite, and Simon wasted no time parting my robe and boosting me onto the counter beside a polished copper sink. This place is amazing, but not nearly as amazing as the feel of Simon sliding into me with nothing at all between us.
I groan and close my eyes, marveling at the feel of him gliding deep inside me with aching slowness.
“Cassie,” he murmurs against my throat. He’s gentle about it, but my body is more than ready to take all of him. I’ve been desperate for it for the last hour, and I clench my thighs around him to draw him deeper.
The feeling of condom-free sex is still new, and so exquisite. There’s something about the way our bodies glide together, the delicate friction of it. I love the way I can feel each ridge and groove. Every last inch of him.
It’s a lot of inches.
“God, you feel good.” I dig my heels into his back, pulling him into me as I press my shoulder blades against the mirror for leverage. He stops kissing my collarbones and lifts his face to kiss my lips instead. There’s a heat in those brown eyes that sends pulses of desire straight through my core.
“You feel amazing.”
I grin into his eyes, then groan when he angles up just a fraction of an inch. I swear the man has a G-spot magnet in the tip of his cock.
“Right there?” he murmurs.
“Mmmhmmm. Oh, yes! Don’t stop.”
He’s breathing heavy now against my neck, and the sound of my own heartbeat is hammering in my head. I’m not sure how we hear the thud of a door through all that noise, but we both freeze in unison.
Footsteps echo through the Ladies’ Relaxation Suite, and we both glance at the dressing room door. It’s bolted tight, but there’s eighteen inches of space separating the bottom of the door from the floor. If anyone glances under it, we’re busted.
Maybe the person will leave quickly. I put a finger to my lips, signaling Simon to be quiet. It’s probably housekeeping or another spa guest or—
“Cassondra Michaels?”
I bite my lip. I can easily pretend I’m in the restroom. Maybe if I just—
Achooo!
I gasp, startled, as Simon sneezes again.
Achooo!
Incidentally, having a man sneeze while his cock is inside me was not on The List. Maybe it should have been. God bless the man, he didn’t slip out.
I yank my robe up over my bare shoulder, though that particular spot of naked flesh should be the least of my concerns. I shoot another glance at the locked door and wonder if that sneeze sounded too manly.
Achooo!
I fake my own sneeze, pitching the sound a little deeper to match Simon’s while giving it a decidedly female tone.
This is serious business, the fake sneezing.
“Bless you,” comes a voice on the other side of the door. “Miss Michaels?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Henrietta, your massage therapist. I’m just getting everything ready for your appointment, and I had a couple questions about your preferences.”
“My preferences?” I swallow hard and glance down. Simon is still nestled inside me, our bodies joined at the edge of the countertop.
This is officially the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.
I look up to see Simon grinning at me, a conspiratorial look in his eye. He inches back just a little, then presses into me again.
“Your preferences,” Henrietta repeats as I stifle a gasp. “It says here you requested a Swedish massage. You’ve had one before?”
“Um, yes. Yes of course. Hundreds of times.”
I’m actually not sure if I have, but that seems like the answer that will have Henrietta gone the quickest. Right now, with my legs spread and Simon deep inside me, I’m not up for a detailed explanation of the differences between Swedish and deep-tissue massage.
I watch Simon glance down at the door lock again. I keep expecting him to pull out, but he doesn’t. To be honest, I don’t want him to. He feels so good, and if we can just get Henrietta out of here—
I take a few deep breaths, hoping that’s the end of my conversation with Henrietta. Hoping we can get back to the business at hand.
But Henrietta has other ideas. “Are there particular areas where you’re feeling tight right now?”
Simon grins at me. Those brown eyes flash with mischief. Slowly, oh-so-deliciously, he eases back. Then he slides in again, never once breaking eye contact. It feels exquisite. It feels—
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
He draws back again, then slides in deeper. My body clenches around him as he leans close to whisper against the side of my neck. “I can tell her where you’re feeling tight,” he murmurs. “So tight. So hot. So wet. So—”
“My shoulders!” I shout a little too loudly. Simon shakes with laughter as he turns to plant a kiss on one of the shoulders in question, shoving aside the fabric of my fancy Turkish spa robe.
“Wonderful,” Henrietta replies, and I swear to God her voice is closer than it was a few seconds ago. Is she standing right outside our stall?
“And how do you like your effleurage?” she calls out.
“Um, my effleurage?”
I have no idea if that’s a body part or a beverage. At this point I’m considering shouting adjectives that would cover me either way. Tender? Warm? Uh—
“I’m so sorry,” Henrietta calls. “Effleurage are the long, sweeping strokes we use in Swedish massage. I typically alternate between firm and light pressure, using palms or fingertips, but some clients have very specific preferences.”
As she speaks, Simon slips his own palm between our bodies. He skims his fingertips across my clit, using my own wetness to tease the sensitive bud. I gasp and press against him, my body acting without permission from my brain.
“Fingertips!” My reply comes out more like a groan as the pads of Simon’s fingers continue to torment me. “Uh, light at first, but maybe just a tiny bit faster.”
“I can do that,” Simon whispers. Then he does.
On the other side of the door, Henrietta is still talking.
“That’s excellent feedback,” she calls. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate a client who knows what she wants.”
There’s a shuffling outside the room, and I picture Henrietta taking notes. Simon continues his magic, gliding his fingers over my clit as he slowly begins to fuck me again.
He finds his rhythm, working his hips in tandem with the stroking of his fingers. I let my head fall back against the mirror, so drunk with pleasure that I’m not sure I’d care right now if a whole team of masseuses stood and watched.
But there’s just Henrietta. As Simon drives inside me again, she clears her throat. “How deep do you like it?”
I don’t answer right away, partly because Simon just hit my G-spot, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming with pleasure as I rake my nails down his back. But claw marks on his shoulder blades would make things more awkward for his massage, so I somehow muster a reply.
“Deep!” I choke out. “Really, really deep.”
“Perfect!” Henrietta calls. “With some clients, I’ll even use an elbow to achieve maximum penetration.”
Simon grins and lifts his arm, grazing my right nipple with his elbow. It’s an impressively dexterous maneuver, but not nearly as impressive as what he’s doing between my legs.
“Whatever it takes!” I call to Henrietta while Simon quickens his pace.
There’s a shuffling of footsteps outside the door, and I hold my breath. Maybe this is it. My prayers have been answered. Henrietta has moved on.
But no, it’s not over yet. “May I ask about needing?”
“Needing?”
Right now, I’m needing Simon to stroke me just a few more times, because I can feel myself getting closer. Little bubbles of light burst on the periphery of my vision, and his thumb glides over my clit like—
“I use a lot of thumbs and knuckles in my petrissage, but if you prefer a gentler kind of kneading—”
Oh, kneading. Good God, I’m going to lose it.
I gasp and shove the knuckles of my left hand into my mouth, biting down to keep myself from crying out. Simon gives a sharp intake of breath, and I can tell he’s just a few beats behind me.
We come together like that, Simon thrusting hard and deep and me arching against him and Henrietta prattling on about friction and vibration and rhythmic tapping and God knows what else.
At last, Simon stops moving. I stop coming. And Henrietta stops talking. Did she leave?
“Miss Michaels?”
No such luck.
“Yes?” My voice sounds dreamy and far away, and I close my eyes as Simon leans down to plant a kiss on my temple.
“Just one more question,” Henrietta says. “I couldn’t help noticing you have a fair amount of hair on your legs.”
I glance down. Sure enough, Simon’s bare legs are visible beneath the hem of his robe, and beneath the eighteen inches of space at the bottom of the stall door. Wonderful.
“This isn’t a problem, of course,” Henrietta prattles on. “Certainly, I perform massage on all manner of body parts with hair or without hair. I just wanted to see how you would prefer me to—”
“I’ll shave.”
There’s a beat of silence outside, followed by Henrietta’s voice again. “Ma’am?”
“No worries, I’ll just shave my legs. How about you give me just a few minutes to jump in the shower and get ready for the appointment?”
“Oh. Yes, well. If you like.”
“I like,” I say, stifling my laughter as Simon slides out of me and brushes a kiss over my shoulder. “I like very much.”